


A Kind of Poetry

by Medeafic



Series: Captain Spanky Series [9]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Barebacking, D/s, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Sado-Masochism, attempted humiliation, vague mentions of biting and needles, violent sex and knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-07
Updated: 2011-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys play with sharpies and make soup.  And Chris finds out what Zach wanted to do with his ex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kind of Poetry

Chris never says no these days to Zach.  If he has a photo shoot or a casting call coming up, he’ll warn Zach about it, but he never says no.  Not to anything.  There’s always a been a tacit understanding between them about what’s Okay and what is going to cause difficulties if, for example, Chris is asked to take his shirt off for an audition, or he’s seeing a fitter for costumes.  But Zach’s imagination is wicked and adventurous, and Chris knows he enjoys coming up with things to work around these obstacles.

Zach’s inventiveness has the occasional unexpected outcome, like the time he attacks Chris with a sharpie and writes things all over him, like “Fuck Whore” across his lower back with an arrow down his butt crack, and “SLUT” on his forehead. 

It’s supposed to be an illustration of dominance, writing demeaning phrases all over Chris’s body, but Zach can’t stop chortling long enough to do anything much except fuck him.  And even that, Zach is doing without his usual talent.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually, giggling.  “It’s just – you look like you’ve slept on wet newspaper.”

“Wet _pornographic_ newspaper.  Can you shut up and get me off already?” Chris pants, jerking himself resignedly when Zach takes his hand off to wipe away tears of laughter.  “Stop laughing and fuck me!”

Later, Chris comes out of the bathroom and gives Zach a bemused look.  “Dude.  It’s not coming off.”

“What?”  Zach is still lying in bed, coming down off his orgasm high.  “Yes it is.”

“Uh, no.  It’s really not.”

Zach rolls up on his elbow and grins at him again.  “You look fucking hilarious.  Did you use –”

“Yeah, I tried that face stuff you gave me, and everything else in your bathroom, up to and including toothpaste.”  Chris isn’t lying.  He has a grainy white smear on his chest across “I can jizz up to here.”  Zach makes a noise that sounds like ‘ _snerk_ ’ when he sees it.  “I have a _screen test_ tomorrow,” Chris says desperately.

“Huh,” Zach says.  “I thought it would come off with soap.”  And then he’s trying not to snicker, and Chris is annoyed, but he starts chuckling too and they both end up gasping for air on the bed from laughing so hard.

They discover that Zach can _lick_ off “SLUT”, and most of the “bite me” on Chris’s neck, so at least his face is clear.  Somehow, sharpie marks are saliva-soluble where everything else has failed.  But Zach ends up with a black tongue, even after brushing his teeth, and feels sick.  Chris still looks like he hasn’t washed his face for days. 

The rest of the words stubbornly stay put until Chris Googles it and finds a suggestion: hair spray.

“And God knows why _you_ of all people don’t have hair spray in your bathroom cabinet,” he snipes at Zach.

“Ew.”  Zach scrunches his face up.  “It makes my hair crunchy.”

Zach buys some cheap hair spray and a new toothbrush from the 24-hour drugstore.  He sprays Chris all over in the shower.  The words run, but leave an inky puddle on the white tile.

They also find that excessive amounts of hair spray in an enclosed space is not a great idea.

“At least I got to hit my asphyxia kink,” Zach croaks later, when they’re trying to get to sleep.  “Kind of.”

“Let’s not do that again,” Chris coughs.

  
***

  
“So what’s your ultimate fantasy?” Chris hazards one afternoon.

Zach nearly slices his finger off and curses, more than Chris thinks is really necessary.  He’s been preparing dinner for them, chopping, melting butter, and generally being insufferable about the proper way to caramelize onions, before Chris interrupted. 

Zach washes the cut under the kitchen faucet while Chris gets tissues and a band-aid.  “Sorry,” Chris says, once the bleeding has stopped.

“It’s cool,” Zach says, with an amused look on his face.  “Kind of fitting, even.”  He glances back to his work space.

Chris looks at him questioningly, and then at the blood on the chopping board, marinating the onions. 

“Oh,” he says.  “Ohhh.”  He looks back at Zach, who is watching him closely but pretending not to.  “Okay,” he shrugs casually.

“Maybe we can talk about it more later,” Zach suggests.  “When I’m not trying to concentrate on food.”

“Sure,” Chris says.  “Do you want me to take over and play sous chef?”

“You couldn’t ‘finely slice’ to save your life,” Zach snorts.  “You _machete_.”

“Oh, Jesus.  Just move over.  It'll be rustic.”  Chris salvages what he can from the onions and puts them into a bowl, then rinses the board down.  He watches Zach’s blood turn pink and then colorless as it swirls into the water and down the drain.

Zach has used a needle on him before, jabbing shallow pinpricks into his chest and watching the blood bloom.  Chris tries to remember if he seemed to like it more than other things, but it’s all a bit of a blur.

Or maybe it’s the knife he likes.

Chris can feel Zach watching him, so he gives his best golden boy smile and says, “Pray continue, Chef.  How exactly _does_ one perfect the caramelized onion?”

“Organic butter,” Zach says.  "And consistent de-glazing."  His voice is pleasant.  Chris hopes he doesn’t see his hand shaking as he continues chopping the onions.  Zach doesn’t say another word about his knife skills.

Later that evening, they collapse on the couch together, too full of French onion soup and gruyere and crusty bread.  Chris wraps his arms and legs around Zach from behind and holds him so tight against his chest that he can feel Zach’s heart beat. 

Zach protests, “ _Unhgh_ , my tummy,” but he doesn’t pull away. 

After a while, Chris noses into Zach's hair, kisses the top of his head.  “Can we talk more now?” he says.  He wants to try before Zach starts falling asleep, which seems to be his usual reaction after too much food.

Zach yawns, on cue.  “Okay.”

“So,” Chris says, because he’s not really sure how to start.  “Blood, huh?”

Zach starts shaking on top of him, and Chris realizes he’s laughing.  “What I like about you is the subtlety, Pine,” he says.

“Oh, give me a break,” Chris mutters.

“Sorry,” Zach says, but he doesn’t sound contrite.  “No, it’s not really the blood.”  He twists over, shuffling them both with determination so that they’re lying side by side and face to face.  The couch is almost too small for both of them.  “You have onion breath,” he tells Chris.

“So do you.  Knives?”

“Not exactly.”

“So – what?”

“I’ve been living with this for a long time,” Zach says.  “Mostly I understand myself.  But there’s one thing I don’t really get.”  He shifts, rubs his eye into the heel of his hand.  “Look, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says, and he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“You’re talking in circles,” Chris complains.  He traces Zach’s eyebrow with a thumb to smooth it down.  “Tell me.”

Zach’s not looking at him; he’s looking carefully over his shoulder instead.  He’s not ashamed, but something else. 

“Trust me.  I’m not going to react like Adam,” Chris assures him.  He hates even saying that name.

“Do you really enjoy it?”

Does he enjoy it, Chris wonders.  No, because enjoyment is not a word that fully covers the experiences he’s had with Zach.  He's thought before that there is a strange beauty in it, a kind of poetry he never knew about before.  It's far beyond enjoyment.  But he doesn’t want to freak Zach out, so he just says, “Absolutely, yes.”  A thought strikes him.  “Do you?” he asks, tentative.

Zach releases a big rush of air, as though he’s been holding his breath.  “Absolutely, yes,” he echoes.

“Even though…”

“Even though.”  _Even though I hold back_ , Zach’s eyes say.

“Then I want to find out more.  About what you like.”  Chris feels his heart hammering in his chest, and is surprised to find he’s terrified.  It’s almost like falling in love.  “So, ultimate fantasy?  What did you want to do with Adam?”

Zach twists his mouth. 

“Honesty Policy,” Chris says sternly.

Zach rolls his eyes.  “My _ultimate_ fantasy would probably get me the electric chair,” he says, and Chris isn’t sure if that was hyperbole.  He’s going to hope yes.  “And that’s not what I wanted to do with Adam, anyway.  But even so…maybe he was right, maybe what I wanted was going too far.”  He pulls off Chris, struggling to sit up.  Chris helps him and then they sit side by side, Zach looking at the wall and Chris looking at Zach.

Chris reaches out and places his hand over Zach’s on the couch.  The band-aid on Zach’s finger scratches against his palm.

“I wanted to cut him,” Zach says, staring fixedly at the floor now.  “But not because of the blood.  I like the _fear_.  I like seeing how people react when they’re afraid.  I like being in control while the other person is terrified.  I mean, _really_ scared for their – safety.”  He looks at Chris, finally.  “Maybe if it had just been blood or cutting, he wouldn’t have minded so much.  But I wanted to see his terror.  He knew what I meant.”

Chris takes a deep breath.  There’s a small voice in the back of his mind saying, _No, that's too much_.  But he clamps down on it.  He doesn’t understand it, but this is _Zach_.  He trusts Zach, and Zach is trusting him.

“You’ve seen me scared before,” he says.

“Not really.  I’ve seen you in pain and I’ve seen you beg.  I’ve seen you not looking forward to something and I’ve seen you be very, very brave.  I’ve seen you safe word.  But I’ve never seen you actually afraid – afraid of _me_.”

Chris swallows.  “Honestly, man, I don’t know if I could ever really be scared of you.”  He’s not lying, even though he’s currently frightened.  But he’s afraid of _himself_ , afraid of saying something wrong, not afraid of Zach.

“Yeah, because I’m just a big pussycat underneath,” Zach says sardonically.  He smiles at Chris, though.  “It’s okay,” he says.  “You can think I’m sick if you like.  I don’t understand it myself.”

“I don’t think you’re sick,” Chris says.  “I don’t know if I could do something like that with you, but I don’t think you’re sick.”  He squeezes Zach’s hand.  He doesn’t know if he’s telling the whole truth, but he wants it to be true.

“Maybe you finally found a hard limit,” Zach says.  “Congratulations?”

“Champagne?” Chris suggests.

Zach smiles back at him.  “Who are you kidding, Pine?  Champagne is wasted on your taste buds.”

“I am shocked and hurt,” Chris says, putting on his best shocked and hurt look.  “ _You’re_ the one who savored the chemical tang of sharpies.”

Zach’s eyes light up.  “Speaking of which, I found one which is guaranteed to come off with soap, so maybe we could –”

Chris groans loudly, claps his hands over his face, remembering.  “I don’t think I could handle you laughing your way through sex again.  It was demoralizing.”

  
***

  
Chris considers, over the next few days.  Zach is away in New York for the week, so he has time.

He thinks about the evolution of this strange thing he and Zach have started together.  He thinks about the hole in the wall in Zach’s room (still not fixed).  He thinks about Zach telling him not to be mean, and to stop using his fists to express anger or pain.

He thinks about how weird it is to be in a relationship with a guy, even though it feels so right with Zach.  He’s told his family now.  He talked to his sister first, blurring up the dates and time line a little so she won’t be too mad it took him so long.  She gave him an appraising look for a while, and then told him that he must be a better actor than she thought, to have carried off being _so_ straight for _so_ long.  Chris was relieved, thankful, although he bickered with her like always.  Because if she wasn’t giving him shit over it, things wouldn’t be okay.

His parents, coached by his sister before he spoke to them personally, were awkwardly calm about it all.  His mother, smiling too brightly, invited Zach over to a Sunday lunch, but Chris is holding off on that for a while.  He knows his parents have always admired Zach, and were happy they turned out to be such good friends.  But liking Zach and accepting him as a boyfriend right there in the dining room are two different things.

And he’s _definitely_ not telling them about all the other stuff. 

Chris has few people that he can talk to about that other stuff, and even then it’s vague and done with a veneer of humor, because he doesn’t want them thinking badly of Zach, or of him.  Zoe will listen for a while before it becomes too much, and Anton, but he doesn’t see Anton very often.  One of his ex girlfriends, who is still friendly with him and checks up on him from time to time, is willing to be a sounding board.  But he keeps the really scary bits to himself.

Chris feels like he’s sailing blindly, his compass broken and no stars to guide him – but it’s not a bad thing.  It’s exhilarating.  He feels kind of lost when Zach is away, although he berates himself for being so clingy.  Chris has never really been possessive before of his lovers, and is uncomfortable with the sensation. 

He thinks about knives, about blood.  He thinks about his career.  His face is his fortune; he knows that.  He’s not dumb enough to think it’s talent alone that gets him parts.

What Chris thinks about most over the next few days is how much he trusts Zach, and whether it’s enough.  Because Zach is not a god, and something could go wrong.  He’s not infallible, no matter how much Chris wants him to be.

And he thinks too often of Adam, of what he said about Zach.  _Don’t start thinking there’s anything special there just because he kisses it all better when he’s finished._

  
***

  
Zach flies back from New York on a Saturday, and Chris picks him up from the airport.  “You’re not too tired, are you?” is the first thing he asks anxiously after they studiously don’t kiss hello.  There are people watching them.

“I missed you too,” Zach says.  “And yes, I had a good time.  Thanks for asking.  Too tired for what?  Sex?”

“I want to buy you a present.”

“A present that requires me to be awake and alert?”  Zach's hair is lank underneath his hat, which is a sure sign that he’s been working too hard.  And he’s kind of grumpy.

“I wanted to do it now,” Chris says, taking his bag.  “On the way back to your place.”

Zach rubs his face.  “Okay,” he says.  “But I need coffee.”

Chris already has his favorite waiting in the car, transferred to a thermos mug so it’s still hot.  Zach looks touched when he gives it to him.  “Thanks, man,” he says.

Zach perks up more in the car.  He tells Chris all about New York and what he’s been doing.  How much he loves the city.  Chris feels a pang, but keeps smiling, listening.  Then Zach has to know.  “Where are we going?” he asks.  Chris likes him like this, all curious, wanting his surprise. 

He smirks at Zach and says, “Wait and see.”

“I think I prefer you in subspace,” Zach grumbles.  “More compliant.”

“What am I like?” Chris asks.  “I mean, when I’m like that.”

Zach looks out the window.  “Um.  Quiet mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Sometimes you say things.  You quote things.” 

This is news to Chris.  He starts worrying, hoping he hasn’t said anything bad.  “Like what?”

“Poetry, mostly, and plays.  Shakespeare.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not fucking with you,” Zach says, grinning into his coffee.  “I’d almost call it adorable, but it’s too intense for that.”

Chris is genuinely shocked.  “Like what?  What do I say?”

“Well,” Zach says.  “Apart from Shakespeare, for some reason you talk a lot of Walt Whitman and Sylvia Plath.”

“Shut the fuck up, I do not.  You’re a lying liar from Liesville.”

“I’m a truthy truthster from Truthtown,” Zach says.  “And you do.”

“I haven’t read them for years,” Chris laughs, wondering.  “‘The American Poetic Canon’ with Professor Dawson, the year before I graduated.”

Zach lifts an eyebrow.  “Well, clearly they stuck with you.  And then one time, you quoted Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  I had to look it up afterwards.  I always thought you’d prefer her husband.”

Chris stares at him.

“Jesus, Christopher, watch the road!” Zach says, alarmed.  He grabs the dash.

“What did I say?” Chris demands, swerving back into the proper lane.

“I asked you if you were crying again,” Zach says softly.  “And you said, ‘Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: If it could weep, it could arise and go.’  It stopped me in my tracks, to be honest.”  The fact that he knows the quote by heart himself now does not escape Chris.

“Bullshit,” he says.  He has absolutely no memory of it.  He adds, “And I don’t cry.  And she was much more awesome than Robert Browning, so bite me.”

Zach is laughing, finally cheered up after the lack of sleep and the flight.  “So are you going to tell me where we’re headed?”

“Nope.  We’re nearly there, anyway.”

And then they are.  Chris pulls in to a park on the street and they get out.  Zach looks up and down the street.  “To be honest, I was expecting a sex shop,” he says to Chris.

“And you were right,” Chris says with an evil grin.  “ _Et voila_.”  He waves his hand across the street at a dingy little store with a large black and white sign over the top: _BLADES_.

Zach looks at it, looks at Chris.  “Um,” he says.  “I don’t think –”

“No, don’t say anything,” Chris says hurriedly.  “I’ve thought about it.  A lot.  I’m not saying I won’t freak out and safe word and want to stop, but.”  He rubs the back of his neck.  “I want to do something for you.  I want to try it.  Just to see.”

Chris can see the emotions flickering across Zach’s face.  Shock, lust, relief, concern, tension, blankness.  Sees the Great Wall of China stacking itself skyward in those brown eyes.  “Oh, no you don’t,” Chris says immediately.  “This is _my_ choice.  Your present, but my choice to give it to you.”

Zach is still holding his empty coffee cup.  Chris takes it from his hand and replaces it in the car.  “Come on,” he says, pulling his hand.  “I Googled.  These guys are the best in town.  And you’ve never done anything I’ve regretted - well, except for the sharpie.  But I trust you.” 

He half expects Zach to argue, or start to list clauses and warnings.  But he doesn’t.  He swallow, licks his lips.  “Okay,” he says.  “We can _look_.”

  
***

  
Zach flicks the knife open and closed in his hand the whole way back to his home, staring at it like it holds the mysteries of the universe.

“Seriously, though,” he says.  “I think this is the best present I’ve ever had.”  He’s said the same thing three times.

“Good,” Chris says for the third time, feeling smug.  It’s a small blade, because there are laws about things that he didn’t really listen to, although Zach did, attentively.  But sharp, enough to cut Zach’s thumb just by pressing gently.  “So, when we get back –”

“No, no, no,” Zach says.  “When we get back, I’m going to eat, fuck you, then sleep.  I’m exhausted.”  Chris pouts.  “Besides, what I want to do is going to take time to work out.  And it would have to be when you could have recovery time.”

“I always need that,” Chris shrugs.  But he is pleased beyond words that Zach’s mind is firing over the possibilities.

“No,” Zach says.  “Not like this.  And besides, I’ll need recovery time too.”

“Fine,” Chris sighs heavily.  They’ve reached Zach’s apartment.  Chris takes his bag, and Zach takes his knife, still fascinated by it.  Chris has to remind him that he has the keys to the door.

Noah and Harold are still with Joe, which means they have the place to themselves.  Chris is starting to feel like the Perfect Boyfriend.  When Zach sees the food in his fridge, he tries to hide his face, but Chris catches his look of adoration.  “Yeah, I thought you’d be hungry,” he says nonchalantly, as Zach starts grabbing out the dips, falafels, spanakopita, marinated mushrooms.  He got most of them from the local Greek place, but he did machete the vegetables for dipping himself.

“Jesus, Chris,” Zach says with his mouth full.  “I have to go away more often.”

“No!” Chris says.  “No, definitely not.”

Once Zach has eaten enough – but not too much, Chris makes sure of that, because he’s certainly not having him falling asleep before the sex – he showers, and Chris waits impatiently in bed.  Zach comes to him smelling of that weird soap he likes, and with wet hair.  He slides into Chris’s arms and kisses him hard.

“I did miss you,” Zach says.  “So much.”

“Show me,” Chris says. 

“I’m so tired,” Zach groans.

“I believe in you.”  Chris palms Zach’s crotch, smiling into his neck.  “Yep.”

“Mm.  I’m starting to believe in me too.”  But even fatigued, Zach likes to have him subservient.  “Get down there and suck.  Like you mean it.  If you’re good enough, I might wake up enough to fuck you.  Otherwise, you don’t get to come.”

Chris dives.  It’s been too long since he’s had Zach in his mouth.  He uses some tricks he’s learned off the internet, which make Zach gasp and definitely wakes him up.

“Jesus!” he hears Zach saying.  “Have you been practicing?”

“No, I –”

But Zach grabs his neck and shoves him back down before he can explain.  Not that Chris is complaining.  He works his way down, starts jacking him and sucks his balls into his mouth.  His saliva drips enough that he takes a tentative try at rubbing his fingers down further, but Zach yanks his hair.

“Oh, no, Christopher,” he laughs.  “No, no, no.  Not even any time in your dreams, not yet.  Takes a lot of mileage before you get something like that.”

Chris growls, but obediently keeps his fingers to himself.  “Are you going to fuck me yet?”

“Wow, you sure are looking for a lonely night,” Zach yawns.

“But you said –”

“I said do a good job, not backchat until I give in.”

Chris wants to protest, wants to say he’ll just take care of himself anyway if Zach doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t.  There was one time when Zach caught him jerking off after he wasn’t supposed to, and he doesn’t want to repeat that experience.  It was painful.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it.  Goes back to sucking.  Uses his tongue like Zach does when he wants to make him shoot in record time, flicking into the slit and rubbing under the head.  Cradles his sac with an infinitely gentle pressure.

“Okay, enough,” Zach gasps a few minutes later.  “You’ve made your point.  I’ll fuck you.”

Chris smiles arrogantly, but isn’t dumb enough to keep it on his face by the time he gets back up to Zach’s.  “Hi,” he says. 

“Hi.  Turn over.”

Okay.  Apparently it’s going to be quick and dirty, but Chris is fine with that.  He hears Zach scrabble in the nightstand, and spreads his legs automatically.

“You’re like a well-trained dog, Christopher,” Zach tells him.  “Good boy.”

Chris stifles his groan in the pillow, his cock throbbing.  He can hear noises as Zach slicks himself up with lube, and tenses slightly as fingers touch him, invade.

“You like that?” Zach asks.  “Tell me.”

“I’ve missed it,” Chris pants.  Zach’s fingers are probing, teasing.  “You can’t go away again without fucking me for two days straight before, okay?  Give me something to remember next time.”

“You won’t remember me otherwise?” Zach snarls.  He pushes higher, but not high enough.

“ _Fuck_.  Yeah, no, I didn’t mean –”

“Quiet,” Zach whispers, and it’s an order.  Chris shuts up immediately.  Zach slides his cock in, slowly, inching, listening for his breathing.  "Oh, I have _missed this_ ," Zach says.  He pulls Chris's hips back into him sharply, then holds him down by the wrists.  "I have missed having a Christopher of my own to play with."

Chris feels the familiar buzzing in his head, the sign he’s slipping under.

“Are you going to quote poetry for me tonight, Christopher?” is the last thing he really remembers hearing that makes any sense.  After that, it’s all feeling and floating.  He feels Zach holding him down and hears him come, feels him come, feels him biting, but it’s all far away.  He tries to say he wants to be there too, and Zach apparently _is_ a mind reader, because soon after that Chris feels his orgasm overtake him, his dick jerking obediently in Zach’s hand.

He wakes up so early that it’s still dark, and Zach isn’t there.  Pads out to the living room, naked.

“What are you doing?” he yawns.  Zach is sitting at the computer, reading something.

“I’m still on east coast time,” he says apologetically.  “Sorry.  I didn’t think you’d wake up.”  He stands up, stretches.  “Come back to bed with me,” he says, smiling.

“Okay.”  Chris is still half asleep anyway.  Zach pulls him into a tight embrace once they’re back in bed.  “Oof,” Chris says.  “What’s that for?”

“I missed you, you idiot.”

“I missed you, too.”

“You quoted Seneca,” Zach says, sounding like he can’t hold it back any longer.  “ _Seneca_.”

“What?” Chris yawns.  He was in a play, he recalls.  In college.  Something by Seneca.  “Well.  I _am_ pretty awesome like that, apparently.”  Zach squeezes him again.  “What the hell did I say?  Was it in freaking Latin or something?”

Zach starts laughing.  “You’re not _that_ awesome.”  He moves up to lean over Chris, murmurs into his ear.  “What place is this, what region, what tract of the earth?  Where am I?  Beneath the sun’s rising, or beneath the turning point of the icy Bear?”

“Yeah,” Chris mumbles.  “I remember.  I was Hercules.”

“Does that make me your icy bear?” Zach asks.  But Chris is too tired to keep up.

“Sure,” he says.  “You can be my icy bear, Zach.”  He’s asleep again before Zach replies.


End file.
